Make Your Choice
by Salsa849
Summary: Another dream; another forgotten nightmare; another year has gone by. The eve of her wedding to Raoul dawns, and only one night remains for Christine to make her choice - after that, there will be no turning back.


**Summary: Another dream; another forgotten nightmare; another year has gone by. The eve of her wedding to Raoul dawns, and only one night remains for Christine to make her choice - after that, there will be no turning back. **

**Ok, so this is my first POTO fanfiction story, but it probably wont be the last :D I fell in love with the film all over again a few weeks ago, and have been dying to write a story about it, and finally I have! So please, enjoy and feel free to leave reviews, I'd appreciate constructive criticism :) This is a long oneshot btw, also if you like short stories keep a lookout for Naomily4EVA's upcoming POTO story! :)**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Phantom of the Opera; the movie belongs to Andrew Lloyd Webber and Joel Schumacher :'( **

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Make Your Choice

'_Christine...why did you go?'_

_That voice whispered to her, tore at the very centre of her being, and she clung to it, not wishing to let it go; not now, not ever._

'_I showed you our future, the one we could have had together. I shared my music with you. I destroyed my only home for you. But you left! ...And you took the music with you.'_

_She parted her trembling lips, but no words came. She could only stare in sorrow and despair at his half-wild, tormented face. Tears rose in her eyes and she reached out to him, but her hand seemed to pass through_ _him; he was fading rapidly. Then she was standing alone, in the heart of his opera. Out of the shadows, his voice once again whispered to her._

'_Christine, I love you...'_

Christine Daae woke up suddenly, alone in her room. She stretched and blinked; surprised to find tears in her eyes. Strange; that had been happening more and more lately. She dismissed the thought, before rolling over and checking the clock.

With a start she leapt up and began to get ready. It was long past time to get up; if she didn't hurry she would be late! And Raoul would doubtless be cross. Remnants of her dream clung to her as she dressed, but she had no time to make sense of them. The fiancée of the Vicomte de Chagny had much more important things to do.

* * *

'If we move the Comte de Saint-Germain, and the Mademoiselles Arquette to Table Five, then you will have room for Monsieur et Madame Belgard at the bridal table.'

'Yes; I think that would work. What do you think, Christine?'

She smiled weakly at him. 'That sounds lovely, Raoul.'

'You do remember the Monsieur and Madame Belgard, don't you? They invited us to their ball a few weeks ago. Surely you remember?'

'Of course I do – only you've brought me to so many balls, sometimes they all get mixed up in my head.'

'Are you feeling all right, my dear?' he asked, sitting down next to her and taking her hand in concern.

'Yes, I'm fine Raoul,' she replied, vague irritation rising up inside her. But instead of voicing it, she forced another smile. He smiled back at her, satisfied, before resuming the wedding conversation. Christine sat in silence and allowed her mind to wander as he discussed last-minute arrangements with the experts and crystallized the already-made plans. Idly, she found herself humming under her breath the old tune that had first secured her fame and – she had thought – her future, as a leading star _de l'Opéra Populaire._ Softly, so that no one heard, she whispered to herself; '_We never said, our love was evergreen or as unchanging as the sea, but if you can still remember, stop and think of me...'_

'Christine! Pay attention!'

Her head snapped up to see her mother-in-law to be staring at her with a disapproving expression etched on her polished,aristocratic face. '_Excusez-moi, _Madame, I'm just a little distracted.'

The Dowager Vicomtesse de Chagny frowned. 'I can see that, but we do have a quite a lot to get through before tomorrow, and I would appreciate your cooperation.' She paused for a moment to emphasize her point, and then continued to go over the finer details of the wedding feast, and the _croquembouche._

Over the next hour, Christine attempted to join in, but it seemed that everything had already been sorted out, without her. At last; they came to the floral arrangements and Christine straightened, smiling in anticipation of the one part of the wedding she had her heart set on.

'Now, onto floral arrangements,' the Dowager Vicomtesse announced, looking at the pages before her. 'Ah yes...orange blossoms. Moving on –'

'No!' Christine interrupted. 'I thought we'd decided on red roses?'

'About that, my love – I asked them to change it,' Raoul spoke up, looking lovingly at her.

She stared at him, confused and disbelieving. 'Why – why would you do that?'

'I thought orange blossoms would be better,' he replied, unfazed by the growing horror on her face. 'So much more suitable – and traditional – don't you think?'

She shook her head slowly. 'No, I don't think, Raoul.' Gently but firmly, she drew her hand away from his. 'You knew I wanted red roses for our wedding. That's all I've asked of you.'

'Darling, I only ever had your best interests in mind,' he said earnestly, leaning forward and taking her hands again. 'I know you like red roses, and of course they are beautiful, but I assumed that they would bring back too many bad memories...' He looked at her meaningfully. '...of the Opera House.'

'Whoever said they were all bad?' His fiancée heard herself saying, almost involuntarily.

'No one did,' Raoul's mother assured her, but the hint of a sneer crept into her voice. 'I'm sure your time as a chorus girl was indeed...an experience. However, my son was referring to the latter months of your time spent in the Opera House.'

'You understand, don't you?' Raoul pressed, suddenly worried.

Christine nodded numbly, fighting to keep herself together. They didn't want any trace of the scandalous events surrounding the destruction of L'Opéra Populaire to tarnish the long-awaited celebration. It would surely look strange to guests, and perhaps raise questions if the preferred flowers of the Opera Ghost were to appear at the wedding of his would-be victim. It could even – heaven forbid! – damage their formidable reputation.

Blindly, suddenly, Christine pulled her hands from Raoul once more, rose from her seat and made her way over to the door. The Dowager's voice rang out from behind her as she placed her hand on the door knob.

'Where do you think you're going? We haven't finished yet!'

She paused and turned around, regarding them coolly. 'It seems like you've got everything under control here. I'm only getting in your way.'

As she closed the pine doors behind her, she heard Raoul make a half-hearted exclamation after her, followed by a disparaging remark from his mother, yet another slight against mere, temperamental chorus girls she presumed. Not wishing to hear any more, she gathered up her skirts and swiftly left the elegant drawing room behind her, startling a few servants along the way.

* * *

As soon as she entered the sanctuary of her bedchamber, Christine hastened to lock the door and leaned against it, heart beating wildly and thoughts roving wilder still, trying to deny what it was that had made her run.

In truth, Christine Daae was bored, sick and tired of the wedding plans. Of course, she had not always been. At the start, when everything was rosy and new, she'd lapped it all up and loved every moment of it. She, along with Madame Giry and Meg, had thrown herself into the decorations, the dresses, the menus, revelled in the parties and honours which came from being the Vicomte de Chagny's permanent escort. But now, almost a year later, the sight of her glorious trousseau so generously bestowed on her by Raoul's family brought no quickening of delight to her heart; no feeling of euphoric giddiness. The upcoming wedding had lost its magical fairy-tale sparkle, as she had caught a glimpse of what her new life was to be.

For it would not be proper for the Vicomtesse de Chagny to sing in operas and plays, nor spend too much time with her friends from the Opera. Instead, she would be expected to host parties and balls, attend them, run the estate and bear heirs for the Vicomte. She would still be allowed to sing at her own home, naturally, but the pure incandescent thrill of standing up before a full house and losing herself in the music would be forever forbidden to her.

Yet this was the life that, in little more than twenty-four hours, she would be binding herself to. A little thought niggled in the back of her head; if she had known that this was what her life would be like, would she have chosen it as readily?

Still seething about the flowers, she began to pace back and forth across the floor. She had _asked_ for the red roses; ever since she and Meg had first dreamed of being brides as little girls, she had wanted red roses. Something she suspected that the Phantom of the Opera had influenced with his gifts of beautiful, beribboned roses to her.

But it was not just the roses themselves that were so greatly annoying her, she realised. It was the way in which Raoul – and his mother too – had taken control and disregarded her wishes, without even thinking to consult her first. It was that which enraged her, and made her continue her furious pacing. Then the dam broke; and all the little, inconsequential things which had been bottled up so gradually, came bursting into the middle of her conflict drawing up unwelcome thoughts and ideas. The various snubs she'd received from the Dowager Vicomtesse; the way the servants looked at her; the way Raoul still treated her as a child, an inferior almost, at times; the distance that had steadily grown between them; the practical, almost cold manner which he was adopting more and more these days, since the death of his father she presumed.

It had been that that had made their engagement so much longer than intended and that had indeed created the first distance between them, Christine reflected miserably. The Raoul she knew, the one from her childhood, was changing and she wasn't sure that she liked the outcome.

'What have you got yourself into, Christine?' she scolded herself, sitting heavily on her bed. 'Any other young woman would be thrilled to be in your position; engaged to the rich Vicomte de Chagny; your childhood sweetheart no less! How many girls dream of marrying their childhood sweethearts? And yet here I am, thinking such ungrateful thoughts! I am truly lucky...'

But luck was not the same thing as happiness, Christine Daae thought. She had barely even thought the question before the answer was there; No, she was not happy in her grand new lifestyle.

'If I'm not happy with Raoul, then who am I happy with?' she whispered to herself, already knowing the answer, long buried amongst painful memories. Her lips barely moved as she sung the unspeakable words in La Maison de Chagny; _'The Phantom of the Opera is there, inside my mind...'_

Then she leaned back against the pillows, seeking their comfort. The wrong thing to do of course, for as soon as she rested her head, fragments of her dream came rushing back to her, and she let out a strangled gasp as the true matter, the true pain, the absolute, unembellished _truth_ hit her.

It was no use denying it, she thought bitterly, as the pain twisted itself into a rigid knot around her heart. The Phantom of the Opera _was _there, and always would be. Though he had let her go, she could never let _him_ go. The realisation was awful, but at the same time uplifting and a – relief, almost, filled her. She was _not_ doomed to a life in the grand de Chagny household. To a life without music.

Her heart pounded excitedly as she sat up. _I could go. I could leave, right now._ Delight rose inside her, fuelled by hope, threatening to burst out uncontrollably, until her eyes fell on the chest in the corner of the room, and it vanished as soon as it had appeared.

Slowly, sadly, Christine approached the chest which held her trousseau, and gently stroked a hand over it. Could she really leave the de Chagnys, after all they had done and endured for her? After Raoul's mother insisting on giving her such elaborate finery as she would have given her own daughter, and allowing her to stay in their home when she no longer had one of her own? After poor Raoul having to fight so much for her sake. He had not planned on entering into a direct competition with none other than the Phantom of the Opera, when he had fallen in love, again, with his childhood sweetheart. When he had pledged his love to her on the rooftops of the Opera, he had not know what he was getting himself into; he had not even believed in the existence of the Phantom. Poor, unwitting Raoul had not imagined that he would be tied to the gates of Hell, as others described them, and threatened with his own death and his beloved's imprisonment. However much her relationship with Raoul had declined, he did not deserve that. No one did.

In the silence and comfort of her room – which was not really hers – Christine wept, mourning for the loss of her freedom, her future, her Phantom; her Angel of Music.

* * *

The de Chagnys were pleasantly surprised to see Madame Giry that afternoon. He and his mother were having tea in the drawing room, when she entered with a smile and a curtsy. She claimed that she had come to see if they needed any help with the wedding, and so she and the Vicomtesse immediately engaged in eager wedding talk.

It was not long before Madame Giry enquired after Christine; the person she'd _really _come to see.

'I don't know what's the matter with the silly child,' was the Dowager's dismissive reply. 'She's been up in her room for a good few hours – refused to come down for lunch, even!'

'A case of nerves no doubt,' Madame Giry supplied with a smile, inwardly worrying for Christine. Though she had not been visiting the de Chagny residence as regularly, she hadn't failed to notice Christine's quiet withdrawal and the distance spreading between the two lovebirds.

'She has refused to see anyone,' Raoul's mother went on. 'Even Raoul. She has behaved extremely ill, at any rate.'

'Don't worry Madame, it is perfectly normal for young women to become nervous the day before the wedding,' Madame Giry assured her quickly. 'Christine is no different from the rest. If you wish; I will go up and speak with her.'

'If it isn't too much of an inconvenience...' Raoul's mother said grudgingly.

'Nonsense; I would like to see her,' Madame Giry said briskly, and gave them another quick smile, before she exited the room. 'I will not be long.'

She kindly refused the servant who offered to bring her to Miss Daae. She knew the way perfectly well so it wasn't long before she was standing outside Christine's room, and knocking gently.

'For the last time, I don't want anything!' came the exasperated reply. 'And yes; I'm fine!'

'Christine? _C'est moi,_ Madame Giry. May I come in?'

'Madame Giry?' The surprise was evident in her tone, and she hurried to unlock the door. That good woman couldn't suppress a gasp at the sight of Christine, her daughter in all but blood.

'My dear, what on earth is wrong?' Swiftly she closed the door behind them and guided Christine over to the bed. Instinctively, she brushed a mass of Christine's unruly hair away from her tear stained face. 'Please tell me, _ma chère_. I am sorry Meg and I have not been to see you a lot recently – '

'Please; don't feel guilty Madame Giry, it's not your fault,' Christine replied with a bitter laugh; an echo of the former sweet sound. 'It's all mine.'

'Christine.' Madame Giry laid her hands gently on Christine's shoulders. 'Are you having doubts about marrying Raoul?'

Another tear slid down the young woman's face. 'No, Madame. You need not fear; I have no doubts at all that I _will_ marry Raoul.'

Her old ballet mistress sighed dramatically. 'Christine, look at me.' She did so, sniffling slightly. 'My dear, that felt more like a _must_ than a _want_. Something that is never advisable to feel the night before a wedding.' Seeing the pain and anguish in Raoul's fiancée's eyes, Madame Giry went on more gently. 'Christine... you don't have to lie to me.'

More tears filled Christine's large, brown eyes, and she let them fall unabashedly. 'I – I don't know what to do,' she finally whispered, and then collapsed into Madame Giry's arms, sobbing. 'I didn't know before now – I would have done something then, but it's too late now! Always too late... I've reached the Point of No Return,' she finished woefully, hiccupping sadly.

Madame Giry's voice caught in her throat, as she spoke quietly. 'It's him, isn't it?' Christine's heavy sobs increased, confirming it, and Madame Giry only held her tighter as her worst fears were realised. She'd dreaded this happening; feared it since that very moment when Christine had emerged triumphantly from the dungeons of his Opera House, beaming happily and holding Raoul's hand, as if in victory. Though she had put on a delighted, happy front, her heart had constricted at the thought of the fate that beheld her old friend, and the pain he must be suffering. But when she entered the lair secretly one last time, there was no sign of him anywhere, and the day after that the Opera House had been officially shut down and boarded up. And now her almost-daughter was suffering the same miserable fate.

'Why can't he just let me be?' Christine wept into her shoulder.

If she was expecting sympathy, instead she was met with the hard, stern countenance of her greatest ally. 'Is that not just what he has done for the past year, Christine? Never has he made any move to contact you, or remind you of his existence. He may be still watching over you, I know not, but he has done his best to ensure that you forget him, his Opera House, and everything he ever did for you. Your tears, though proof of your regard for him, and your regret to have caused such pain will not solve this alone. You must do as your heart, mind and soul tell you to do, and heed not the words of others. Only know that Meg and I will be behind you, whichever path you choose.'

'Oh; why can you not help me, or tell me what the best thing to do is?' Christine sighed wistfully, as she wiped away her tears and watched Madame Giry rise from the bed.

'Because you are a young woman now, and no longer a mere girl of sixteen,' she replied firmly. 'Hopefully you know your mind and your heart better than you did a year ago.'

'Hopefully,' Christine echoed softly.

'I must leave now Christine, but feel free to contact me or Meg as soon as you have made your decision.'

'Thank you, Madame,' Christine replied quickly, jumping to her feet as the older woman opened the door of her room. 'I don't know what I would do without you.'

Her answering smile was fond even as her answer was, as always, practical. 'Perhaps you used to need me, Christine, but I do not think you do any longer. You are perfectly capable of making your own decisions, and I have complete faith in you.' She was about to leave, before she turned back. 'You should probably know this, Christine – his name is Erik.'

Christine's smile widened at Madame Giry's words, and as she closed the door behind her and made her way back through the heavily carpeted corridors, she wished fervently that the once chorus-girl-turned-star would make the right choice.

Back in her room, Christine finally succeeded in drying her eyes, and crossed over to her vanity table, sitting down in front of the mirror. She opened the bottom drawer, and moved aside the old letters and papers cluttering the drawer, to reveal a white, half-mask hidden underneath. She drew it out, and gently laid it on the vanity before her. Meg had given it to her the week after the Opera House had burned down, admitting that she had found it and taken it from his lair, but insisting that it was Christine who ought to have it. Torn between the bad memories and the good, Christine had accepted the seemingly innocent mask, only to hide it at the back of her drawer as soon as she returned to the de Chagny household. Raoul knew nothing of it, and she had only removed it a couple of times during the past year, perhaps driven by an urge to confirm that all of it had actually happened and she had not just dreamed the whole thing. Now she softly stroked it, her mind travelling back to when she had first removed it and seen the horror of his anger, swiftly followed by his remorse and sorrow for the damaged, downcast hopes. Afterwards she had wished that she had thought to say something to alleviate the pain and resignation in his eyes. But instead she had just sat there, watching him with undisclosed sadness and pity. But he had not wanted, or welcomed, her pity...

_Erik_. The name suited him and his dark mystical attire. It felt good to finally have a true name for him. For so long he had been her Angel of Music, and then simply, abruptly, "The Phantom". Both names sounded cold now in light of his true, birth name. _Erik_. She wondered why he had not told her it before. Perhaps he had grown used to hiding his true self behind threatening masks and names.

What had he been doing since that fateful, terrifying night? Where had he lived? How had he survived? _Did he still love her?_ These questions tormented her, nagging at her natural curiosity; the very same that had possessed her to remove his mask that first time far below the Opera House. Suddenly she knew that if she didn't discover the answers to those questions now, she never would. And she would undoubtedly regret it for the rest of her married life. Putting the decision over which future to choose to the back of her head, for now anyway, she quickly dressed in warmer clothing and silently tiptoed out of her room and down the stairs. Briefly, very briefly, she considered informing Raoul of her departure, but dismissed the idea almost as soon as it arose, images of that awful swordfight coming to mind unbidden. Perhaps the worst part, she reflected, had been not knowing which side she wanted to win...

No one saw her as she slipped out of the back door, or recognized her as she hailed a carriage and stepped in. Ten minutes later, the tired, cold driver dropped her off at the Opera House, accepting her money with a grunt and driving off immediately, anxious to get home. The clocks chimed eleven as she cautiously stepped into the abandoned Opera House, the boards having been broken down months ago. In a way, she was glad of the darkness for as she travelled to the dressing room that had been hers only briefly, by memory alone, she did not have to see the sorrowful state that her Opera House would now be in. The dressing room door was unlocked, and the mirror itself slid open easily. She wondered if he had purposely left it unlocked for her to find, but once again dismissed the uncomfortable thought.

The dank, dark passages were hardly comforting as she had been half expecting the walls to be alit with golden torches, while heavenly music played in the background. Nevertheless she went on, and at length reached the edge of the lake. Only a candle she held herself gave any light and remembering where the brackets on the wall had been located, she went to them and lit the long extinguished candles which were only too pleased to burst into flame. She did the same on the other side, before lighting the lanterns in the boat and setting the candle gently in the boat. Then she reached for the long pole. It took her significantly longer to reach the underground cave than it had taken either Raoul or the Phantom – Erik. But at long last the lanterns and her small candle showed the heavy stone statues that stood guard to his home, and silently she passed them, feeling the heavy weight of their eyes on her. The portcullis was still raised and the curtains swept to either side as they had been the last time she was there. Disappointment rose inside her when no glowing lights emerged from the surface of the water to welcome her. When the boat gently bumped against the shore, she took her candle and felt her way to the first grand candelabra. No sooner had she finished lighting it than her own pitiful candle gave out.

At last, enough candles were lit so that she could see the cave comfortably, and she gasped in horror at what she saw.

The tables had been overturned; sheet music thrown to the floor, statues knocked over, cupboards ransacked. The angry people had obviously searched thoroughly for the Opera Ghost, but they had never found him. Her gaze travelled to the dust-coated, cracked mirrors and softly, curiously, she traced the lines contoured on the once smooth surfaces. So those distant crashes she had heard as she and Raoul had slowly propelled themselves away had not been her imagination, any more than his anguished cry of despair had been. They had been Erik, venting his anger and frustration against the world and against her too. She had never considered it less than a miracle that his voice still surpassed all others, even as it soared with passion and emotion. Then Christine began to look in earnest, searching as desperately – maybe even more so – than the angry mob who had tracked the Phantom down to his lair. She called out for him, but only an echo greeted her in place of the angelic voice. As she searched she tried to straighten up and tidy his things, but soon found the task to be a futile one. A thick layer of dust covered most surfaces, and she wasn't even sure where half the objects and papers went.

She didn't know how much time had passed when she finally stopped calling out and looking. No matter how much she tried, how much she wished it, he was not there. A lump rose in her throat, as she realised how much she'd been depending on seeing him tonight and having all her questions answered. Some inner voice had told her that if she only had the chance to see him one last time, she could forget him, and they could both move on and live happily ever after. But that voice was a liar. She had _wanted_ to see him again, _desired _it, and anticipated it eagerly.

Even if he had decided to trap her down here...she wouldn't have minded it. After all, it didn't matter where you were as long as you were with the person you loved above all else.

And she did love him.

She was in love with the Phantom of the Opera.

An extremely dangerous thing to be, Christine reflected, and one that she should be more worried about. But all she could concentrate on was the growing ache building in and spreading from her heart, to the rest of her body. As the pain grew, she felt relieved once more to be able to say it out loud. Faced by the dilemma of the de Chagnys and their hospitality to her, she had allowed herself to believe that it was only an unhealthy obsession completely his fault that bound her to the Phantom – not the purest, healthiest, and most natural of emotions. The child in her had returned, the same child that loved Raoul and all he represented. But it was the young woman who took control now, and she said that Raoul did not belong in her future, or even her present. He had suited her and been her perfect match when they were both children, but it was finally time to let of those simple innocent times, and allow him to move on to another as she was sure he could, and would. As for their hospitality...would it not be worse to marry Raoul while knowing that they had grown apart? He was too much of a gentleman to ever admit it. Would it not be kinder to end this, before it was too late, before she condemned him also to a loveless, unhappy life and marriage? The night before the wedding was definitely not the best time to tell him, but it was better late than never, she reasoned.

'And yet, even with all this reflection and reasoning, there is no happy ending in sight,' Christine said softly, taking the white mask from her pocket. 'You aren't here, and you're not coming. Even if I leave Raoul and move out of the de Chagny house, you won't be there. How could you, after all I put you through?' She shook her head sadly.

Her common sense argued that just because he wasn't there at that time it didn't mean he couldn't come back, or be alive and well somewhere else, but she ignored it. This was the only place she knew to look for him, and the only place she could imagine him to be. Part of her had hoped, irrationally, that he would still be there – just waiting for her. She looked around the empty cavern again, and the tears she'd held back overpowered her weak defences, sliding helplessly down her trembling face. Blindly, Christine stumbled across the room, past the mannequin and up the stairs which led to his beautiful bedroom. The candles had not been lit in there, but enough light from the rest of the cavern shone through to guide her to the bed. There she collapsed into it, sliding beneath the soft velvet covers, unheeding of the thick cloud of dust that rose up from it, or the spider that scuttled out from under it and onto the floor, alarmed at having its home disturbed. Holding tight onto the beautiful white mask, Christine Daae cried her heart out until she had no more tears left to cry. Finally, exhausted and drained both mentally and physically she slipped into a fitful sleep, losing herself in her long-lost dreams.

* * *

He stood there, waiting for her to disappear, as his dreams and hallucinations always did. It would not be long now, he was sure. But minutes passed, and still she slept, her face peaceful but tearstained. He reached out a hand to touch her, but quickly drew back, deciding against it. If this was a hallucination – which it undoubtedly was, for why in the world would _Christine Daae_ be sleeping in his bed – then he wanted it to last for as long as possible. Just gazing upon her beautiful features was enough for him.

He wondered why there were tears on her face at all. Usually his dreams were from a happier time. But perhaps this dream-Christine came from the last time he'd seen her – tears had shown clearly in her eyes then, even as she walked away. Unconsciously he clenched his fist, digging his nails into his hand to try and ignore the pain. Of course, he felt it anyway.

Was it his imagination that the candles were all lit, too? For it had definitely not been him who'd lighted them. He'd come to his old home, prepared to find it in complete darkness, undisturbed. Instead it was brightly lit, and there was a dream-Christine in his bed. And the boat, the gondola, had been at this side of the lake. He had seen Christine and her lover float away on it, known that the mob would disregard it, if found. So who then, had used it? Could it be that perhaps, he was _not_ dreaming?

Then to his horror and delight, Christine – dream or not – opened her large brown eyes and stared directly into his. Her gaze rendered him powerless and he could only look back at her, yearning to come closer, to satisfy his curiosity as to whether she was real or not. Then her eyes widened with pleasure and surprise, and she immediately scrambled from the bed, throwing back the dusty covers and crying out happily; 'Erik!'

The use of his name unfroze him, and he backed away, quenching any hope that still stood as disappointment filled him. Boat or no boat, this was definitely a dream-Christine. He was positive that he had never revealed to her his true name. Also, the Christine he knew would never call out to him with such pleased, hopeful delight.

* * *

Christine's smile faltered as Erik backed away from her, sorrow and disappointment etched onto his face. Didn't he see her? Wasn't he happy to see her? Her arm, half outstretched, dropped back to her side and she repeated his name tentatively. 'Erik?'

He shook his head, a dark scowl appearing on his face. She noticed that he did not wear a mask but his features did not repel her in the way his next words did; softly spoken though they were. 'Be gone from me, foul apparition.'

'I – I'm not an apparition,' she said, dumbstruck. His expression did not change, and she found herself stepping forward, eyes pleading with him. 'Erik – I'm here, I'm real!'

'That's what you always say,' he replied without a trace of humour. God how she missed his voice. 'Now if you're done playing games, I have business to attend to.'

He turned to go, but she jumped forward, reaching out to him. 'No, stop!'

He visibly jerked away from her touch, before whirling to face her and glaring intensely at her. His next words came out as a snarl. '_Leave me. Now.'_

'No,' she replied stubbornly, blocking his way.

His hard, cold eyes softened, as he sighed. 'Must you always be so difficult, Christine?'

'I'm only being difficult because you are,' she answered honestly. 'Why can't you see that I'm really here?'

'Because it's impossible,' he replied flatly, and immediately started at the feel of her warm hand on his skin.

'Can you feel that?' she asked softly, and he nodded, revelling in the caress of her hand on his face. 'Then I must be real, you see.'

Again he nodded, and then opened his eyes to see Christine gazing up at him, a warm smile spreading on her face, and it suddenly sunk in that she was _real,_ and she was _here_. He wanted nothing more than to pull her to him and never let her go but memories of that last awful encounter intruded, flooding his mind and unwillingly he stepped away from her, putting much needed distance between them as he turned from the bedchamber and crossed over to where the organ stood. He heard her light footsteps follow him, and as he pretended to search for something, he asked politely but not entirely composedly; 'Why are you here, Christine?'

'Because I...' she hesitated, not knowing what to say. _Because I love you? Because I made the wrong choice? Because I'm sorry for all the pain and hurt I've caused you, and I want to come back and share in your music again? _'...you left your mask behind,' she finished lamely, holding it out to him. He turned slowly to stare at her, and she saw a shadow pass over his face as he stared at the white half-mask held in her shaking hand. His clothes were as elegant and graceful as they had been before, his face had a healthier hue to it as if he'd been outside in the fresh air more, and his natural straw-coloured hair was neatly brushed back, not wild and unkempt as it had been a year ago. She wondered at the absence of the mask. Had he found a place where he was accepted, despite his disfigurement?

It seemed an eternity before he finally took the mask from her and murmured his thanks. Their eyes met, and a conflict seemed to be raging deep within him as he stared at Christine, but his emotions showed only through his eyes. Gently she laid a hand on his arm and the conflict ceased, surprise and curiosity appearing instead. 'Do you not fear me to touch me, Christine?' he asked, recovering himself as his voice turned low and faintly suggestive.

She shook her head, captivated by his dark eyes. 'I have done so before, have I not?' she replied boldly, and was surprised to see a flash of anger in his eyes. 'What is it?' she asked alarmed, as his jaw tightened and his arm moved away from hers, his hands fisting by his sides.

'I don't need your _pity_, Christine,' he spat, anger radiating out from him in steady waves.

'What are you talking about?' she asked in bewilderment, her confidence fading as once more she felt like a frightened, inexperienced little girl.

'I saw you.' His words were a hiss, but pain and bitterness still managed to penetrate through his sudden icy demeanour. 'Before you..._kissed_ me, your lips moved and I know what you mouthed to Raoul. So don't pretend to have any feelings towards me. You have become quite a skilled liar already.'

Her mouth opened and closed fruitlessly, her blood felt like ice, her hands shook once more. So he believed that she felt nothing for him, that that kiss hadn't meant anything to her! When it had been he who backed away, refusing all she offered him. Later on the rejection had hurt, and now it stung bitterly though at the time she'd been too preoccupied with Raoul, his safety and her own guilt to pay much attention to that part of her which was hurting. Vividly she now remembered the sorrow in her heart as she had given back the ring – originally Raoul's ring – to him, seen his last hope flash and die in front of her. She had never wanted to see that look in his eyes again, and yet here it was in the very same place, only a year later. Her heart beat faster as she tried to collect her thoughts sufficiently to find a way out of this mess. It had been her touch – her kiss- that had freed him from his rage and bloodlust before, but she strongly doubted that he would let her anywhere near him now. He was tensed**, **watchful, and ready to disappear in an instant. All she had left were words...and of course, music.

The Phantom continued to watch the young woman he loved intently, his glare fading to an inscrutable, expressionless mask like the one he still held in his hand. Coming back to his old home had been a mistake. What a fool he had been, to believe he had recovered. To believe that the old memories could no longer hurt him. To believe that Christine could no longer hurt him. But she was just as capable now of ripping his heart out, tearing it up and stamping on the broken, unwanted pieces as she had been a year ago. She alone would always have that power over him. No one could, or would ever captivate him the way she had, and no one could hurt him more than her either.

_I suppose this punishment is only fair, after all,_ he thought bitterly, _in light of my many sins. Perhaps if I can survive this, I may have one more chance of redemption. _

His anger boiled as once more he thought of that damned fop who had stolen her from him, but he fought to keep it under control. Even without the insolent boy, she might have refused him. When not working on his operas, he'd had too much time to contemplate those sorts of thoughts since his carefully planned-out world had collapsed around him. The only thing that had given him even a small measure of strength had been the thought that Christine was happy and cared for; she was safe from him and he from her. And yet now this was not even true. The best thing to do, his mind advised, would be to step away; leave; vanish;_ now._ Forever. He agreed with this, but still made no move to go. Restlessly he clenched and unclenched his fists, and watched the young woman before him as gradually the tormented, anguished look left her beautiful face, and then the voice of an angel echoed throughout the cavern.

'_Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime; say the word and I will follow you. Share each day with me each night, each morning. Say you love me – '_

'_No!' _he bellowed, surprising himself with his ferocity as he flung out a hand as if to ward her off. She stopped, eyes wide, lips trembling. 'Not that infernal song,' he added more quietly, but still forcefully.

She looked as if she had been slapped, as confusion and hurt passed over her face and tears formed at the corners of her eyes. He regretted his harsh reaction almost immediately, but he had not been prepared to hear _that song._ Though he too had sung it to Christine, it would forever be associated with – and almost belong to – that snowy night on the roof of the Opera House, where Christine and her lover had sung their hearts out to each other, destroying his in the process. To hear her sing the words again had been a painful shock, drawing up memories that had negated the loveliness of her voice. Sorrow filled him as he saw it filling her, and he instinctively took a step forward, towards her.

'Forgive me, I should not have snapped at you like that,' he said to her, and her heart flinched at the formality in his tone. 'You sang that song beautifully – but it holds too many unpleasant memories for me to hear it at peace.'

She nodded, not meeting his eyes, instead staring at the cold stone beneath their feet. She could feel the weight of his steady gaze on her, but she knew that if she looked up, all courage and resolve would be washed away by the coldnessthere. Despite the icy reception, she was determined to do what she had come here to. 'I meant every word of those lyrics, you know,' she said quietly, finally raising her gaze.

His eyes narrowed suspiciously, searching hers for any sign of an untruth, but found none. 'Every word?' His reply was careful, slow, distant, but beneath his shirt his heart was beating wildly, and he was feeling strangely breathless.

'Every word, and more,' she confirmed, then struck by a wave of bold daring, unveiled her heart. 'I love you, Erik.'

Time seemed to stand still as her words and her heart hung in the air between them. Transfixed, he stared at her, the emotionless mask fading until only a true vulnerability could be seen. Erik half glanced around, as if he expected another lover to step forward and challenge him. But it was only the two of them, completely alone and far below the deserted Opera House. Unable to stop himself, inexplicably drawn by her, he closed the distance between them until he towered over her. His face, still beautiful to her despite the deformity, was now transformed in hope and wonder. 'Please,' he whispered, almost reverently. 'Don't lie to me.'

'I swear to you that I'm not lying,' she whispered in reply, leaning closer to him, 'my Angel of Music.'

Sadness crept over his previously enraptured features. 'I am no Angel, Christine.'

'I know,' she breathed, her hand slowly tracing up his arm, along his shoulder and behind his neck. 'You're Erik; and you're _my_ Angel.' With that her other hand reached out and pulled his head down to hers, no longer able to resist. Their lips met, and the world could have exploded around them; they wouldn't have noticed or cared. Erik's arms unconsciously wound around her waist, drawing her even closer to him. Heat seared through them, spreading and flaring where their bodies met. It seemed like much later when they finally broke apart, both breathing heavily. Erik closed his eyes again briefly, unable to comprehend what had just happened. He opened them to see that Christine had the same slightly dazed expression on her face. Fleeting, almost forgotten memories of their first kiss and how _right_ it had felt flashed across their minds. If anything, this felt even more right. There was no danger, no threats; nothing but love and passion had prompted this second kiss.

Erik carefully leaned down; arms still wrapped around her and laid a sweet, innocent kiss on the corner of her lips. Drawing back, he sang softly, tenderly in the voice of an angel; _'You alone can make my song take flight.' _Love and warmth shone through those words, far different to the last time he'd uttered them when they had been forlorn, lost and broken.

Christine grinned at the line, pure happiness and euphoria joining the love shining in her own eyes, and she sang back to him; _'Let me share your Music of the Night...'_

Invisible violins flooded the room as their wonderful voices united for the final note, unheard to any but them. When their song trailed off into silence and their lips sought each other out once more, a tremendous orchestra also echoed throughout the L'Opéra Populaire causing their souls and hearts to soar beyond the roof to heights unimagined – just as he had once promised they would. Bathed in the soft glow of candlelight, the music of the night continued to play gladly for the two lovers as they clung almost desperately to each other, each reassuring the other without words that this time they were staying – for good.

* * *

Madame Giry fussed over the veil; carefully arranging it in just the right way, while Meg stared in awe at her best friend.

'Christine, you're beautiful!' she cried in delight.

'Thank you Meg,' Christine smiled happily in reply. 'So are you.' Meg flushed and looked down to admire her own gown; a pretty light blue dress, simple in style but it made her look like an angel.

As Madame Giry stepped back to admire her handiwork, Christine straightened and met her own gaze in the mirror. The day was finally here; the one she'd been waiting and longing for since she was a child, the one she'd innocently dreamed of when they first met.

She was dressed in a long white gown, similar to the one she'd worn when she made her debut in Hannibal. The dress was sleeveless and the bodice sparkled and shone as she moved, emphasizing her slender waist. The dress then flowed out behind her into a long train. It was not the dress the Phantom had forced her to wear a year ago, but one she had bought herself. Raoul's parents had paid for so much for her, but she and Madame Giry had been determined that this one garment should be_ hers_ alone. Her shoulders were bare, save for her long brown curls which fell loose and gently tousled just as he liked it.

'Meg's right; he won't be able to take his eyes off you my dear,' Madame Giry said proudly, a tear quivering in her eye. She embraced Christine, careful not to crush the flowers. Meg followed suit and Christine found herself laughing giddily with her best friend, savouring the last few moments of girlhood.

'Come my dear,' Madame Giry held out a hand to her. 'It is time.'

The former Opera star held her head high and together all three exited the dressing room, making their way towards the inner doors of the church. Meg hurried forward to open them and then dropped behind the bride and her mother, picking up Christine's long train. Then Christine finally raised her eyes to meet those of her beloved.

He stood, looking uncomfortable at the altar beside the priest, but as soon as he saw her he visibly relaxed, his expression turning joyful and unbelieving. Unbelieving that this beauty, this heavenly goddess, should want, love and desire him as much as he did her. Subtly he pinched himself, but still he did not wake up from this dream above all others. Then she was standing there before him, and his breath caught in his throat he looked down on her. Unease filled him as her brow gently creased.

As Christine made the long walk down the aisle, her thoughts flickered back unwillingly to her fiancé. He must have received her letter by now, and she hoped it would appease him. She would like to apologize in person soon, but she would be quite busy for the next month or so – if her suspicions were correct, they would be travelling to Italy, and then onto Greece to discover the culture and art there. And perhaps by the time she returned, he would be calmer and maybe have _begun_ to forgive her. The thought brought her peace, for she did not want her wedding day and those afterward to be marred by bitterness and anger.

Then all thoughts of Raoul and the rest of the de Chagnys were swept from her head as she was suddenly standing before her husband-to-be, her true love. She kissed Madame Giry fondly on both cheeks and passed her bouquet of red roses – tied with a black ribbon – to Meg, squeezing her friend's hand briefly. She proceeded to step up to the altar, bowing her head reverently to the priest before turning her attention back to her Erik, now standing facing her. Her heart skipped a beat as his handsome face smiled down at her, and she frowned. The dark-haired, masked man in front of her looked slightly ashamed, as her eyes bored into his accusingly.

She reached up as his smile disappeared and he caught her wrist, holding it gently but firmly away from his face and silently pleading with his soft green eyes for her not to do this. Madame Giry and Meg looked on curiously as a look passed between them, and then Erik dropped his gloved hand in defeat. They just about heard her whispered promise – _'Trust me' –_ before her small hand slipped under his mask and it fell with ease to the ground, his black wig following soon after.

Ignoring the sharp intake of breath from the three others present, Christine tenderly stroked the ravaged side of her love's face and then rose up to kiss it just as gently.

'If I'm going to marry you, then I want to see you,' she told him seriously. 'You don't need to cover it up anymore – I love you with or without the mask.' At this point the priest looked to Madame Giry for help, but with a slight shake of her head she motioned for him to remain silent. 'And don't ever worry about me running away from you either,' she continued firmly, both hands now resting at the nape of his neck. 'I choose you – now and forever more, Erik.'

Overcome with emotion, he tried to speak but much like the first time she'd kissed him, he found he could not. Instead, seeking to convey his overwhelming gratitude, love, and hope for the future in one single act, he lowered his head and captured her lips almost roughly with his, holding her to him tightly. She didn't resist; conversely she moved closer, welcoming his sinful embrace. Finally, sounding as if from a great distance away, Erik heard a discreet cough from Madame Giry's direction, and so he reluctantly pulled away from his Angel. He smiled in amusement at her slight growl of protest, then mollified her with another quick kiss. 'There'll be plenty more time for that, my dear,' he murmured seductively, ignoring the priest's scandalized expression and Meg's poorly concealed giggle. Leaning so that his mouth was at her ear, his usually velvet voice turned rough and raw under the weight of his emotion as he whispered; 'I love you.'

Her heart leapt at his confession, and a beatific smile graced her features, but before she could respond the now even more scandalized priest cleared his throat loudly, asking pointedly; 'Are you ready to continue with the ceremony, Mademoiselle Daae, Monsieur Fantôme?'

'Of course,' Erik replied smoothly, taking her hand in his as he turned to face the front of the church. Looking sideways at her, he saw her apologetic look, and squeezed her hand in reply, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips as the priest continued his sermon.

Keeping her eyes fixed respectfully on the priest, Christine pulled off his leather glove too, letting it fall to the floor beside the mask, and taking his hand in hers once again. She had no quarrel with the black leather, but there was no substitute for the feel of warm skin against skin. And the Phantom had to say that he agreed wholeheartedly with her, as electricity danced across their entwined fingers in a promise of things to come.

A tear fell from Madame Giry's eye as she watched the two people she cared about most in the world, aside from her own daughter, vow to love, cherish and respect each other for the rest of their lives, until death did them part. Words couldn't describe her joy anymore than it could begin to describe theirs.

And finally, Madame Giry rested safe and secure in the knowledge that she'd done the right thing all those years ago in choosing to help the Devil's Child to escape and leading him to what was to be his new home, workplace and playground – L'Opéra Populaire. More people than she'd liked had suffered as a result of her choice; people she would continue to mourn for, but as she looked upon Christine and Erik's shining countenances she knew that if given the chance, she would gladly make that same choice over and over again.

* * *

**Croquembouche - **The traditional French wedding celebration cake, also known as "la pièce montée", and made of small, creme-filled pastry puffs piled in a pyramid and covered in a caramel glaze and spun sugar. Mm...

Hope you all enjoyed that, and a Merry Christmas to everyone! :D

xxx


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